Flu the Coop
by JaycenMackenzie
Summary: Clint is sick for the first time in a while during the longest winter since moving to New York.


The tissue box was empty again. Clint sniffed despondently, tossing the box away with what little strength he had. It hit the edge of the garbage bin, barely tipping into it.

That was the third box that week.

With a heavy but congested sigh, Clint pushed himself up onto his elbows, groaning as he raised himself into an upright position. The moment the fleece blanket covering his legs slipped off, a shiver racked his entire body, shaking him from his core.

The portable heater leaning against the coffee table wasn't helping much, nor was the three layers of clothes he had on. Any cool air still seeped through the beanie covering his head and the thick wool scarf around his neck.

He considered turning the heat up in his apartment but decided that saving a little extra at eighteen degrees was better than being warm. His job paid for all his amenities, but living in the city was tough.

After much trouble, Clint finally stood, though he felt quite queasy the moment he got up. The room spun around, and black spots danced in his eyes. He almost fell back onto the couch.

Once the lights stopped flashing, Clint found the strength to shuffle to the linen closet to retrieve the rest of the tissue boxes. He tossed those boxes onto the couch and headed to the kitchen, deciding that a hot drink would soothe his burning throat.

Rummaging through his cupboards, he discovered that he had no tea and no honey. Coffee wouldn't do him any good. Rubbing his temples as if it would relieve him of his fuzzy head, Clint leaned against the counter listening to the water boil. Its high-pitched whining was like the sound his nose was making every time he breathed.

His phone pinged suddenly, and Clint whirled around trying to find it. He couldn't remember where it was.

It pinged again, but Clint ignored it, as standing up for so long exerted all his energy. Then his home phone rang, and Clint, pretending not to hear it, slid onto the kitchen floor, too tired to answer it. It was likely work or Natasha, although he'd already called in sick that morning.

Someone was leaving a message after the beep. Work didn't do that. Neither did Natasha.

"Hey, Bird Boy," said a very familiar voice. "I'm sending over America embodied in a big muscular kid. He should have some soup or whatever we ordered from one of my restaurants. So, let him in when he buzzes, okay? Iron Man out."

The call ended with a long beep. Clint shook his head tiredly. There were too many noises assaulting his ears and tender brain.

Five minutes passed with complete silence, the kettle's boiling finished and no incoming calls.

Clint lay against the sink cabinet, the cold tiles chilling him to the bone despite his thickest sweats that warmed him in most situations. His nose was running again, but he couldn't sniff the stuff back in because his nose was stuffed, so he had to breathe through his mouth which was drying out his already scratchy throat.

As an assassin and spy, Clint's jobs often left him bloody and battered. Occasionally there would be broken bones, out-of-socket shoulders, and once, a punctured lung.

While those were painful, he was mostly sedated or attached to a morphine drip.

The flu was another story. The most basic and involuntary actions of breathing and swallowing were made torturous and very noticeable. So maybe the punctured lung was a little worse than the flu, but not by much.

The buzzer startled Clint enough for him to scramble up to answer it.

A minute after there was a knock at the door. "Rogers." Clint greeted the bag-laden captain with a tired smile.

Steve Rogers shouldered through the entrance and into the kitchen. "Brought you some supplies." He hefted the bags onto the counter as if they were heavy for him. "Actually Stark and Miss Potts put everything together. They just got me to deliver it."

Clint discovered a big box of tissues, various medicines, and boxes of tea in one bag, and a heated blanket and some food in the other. He immediately opened blanket package and without reading any instructions he turned it on, wrapping it around his shivering body. Letting in the cold air from the hallway did him no good except to make his nose run even more.

"And you're probably not hungry but we got you a bento box." Steve produced another box encased in a plastic bag.

Clint shook his head. He had no appetite. No solid foods for three days, and yet he was no hungrier than he was at the beginning of the week. He shuffled back to his couch, his muscles exhausted from the five minutes of exertion.

"Stark has something important this week, huh?" he asked as he collapsed into the cushions.

Ah, much better.

Steve chuckled, pulling up a stool next to Clint. "How'd you know?"

"Why else would he send you if he didn't want to get sick? Otherwise it would've been a not-so-great excuse to get out of whatever the social event was."

"I can still get sick," Steve said, opening a tissue box. He handed a tissue to Clint who gratefully accepted.

"Sure," Clint said after blowing his nose. "But nothing this mild. I mean, do you even have to blow your nose anymore?"

Clint very well knew of Steve's various maladies as a sick child in the thirties. He knew of all the troubles Mrs. Rogers went through to try and keep her son as healthy as possible. They all read the files and did their own research.

Steve could get sick, but his immune system fought off the maladies ten times faster than a normal human's. In other words, once he got sick, he got better within hours.

Someone in medical actually tracked the progress of an implanted cold virus into Steve, and his body got rid of the virus in exactly seven hours. Steve showed no symptoms during that time.

"Do you want something to drink?" Steve asked, ignoring Clint's previous comment.

"I know alcohol kills germs, but I don't think it works for the flu."

The captain rolled his eyes.

"I was about to make that citrus honey tea you brought," Clint said, vaguely waving to the kitchen. "Water's already boiled. Thanks."

A minute later Steve returned with a mug of hot tea and set it on the coffee table. "You know that there's expired yogurt in your fridge? I threw it out for you but your fridge is empty now save for a pack of beer and the Japanese food."

Clint shrugged, reaching down to take a sip of his drink. "I have take-out usually. Are you hungry?"

Steve shook his head. "Just concerned." An undertone of something Clint didn't really like coloured those words. The tone sounded like those nurses who aided him when he'd broken two ribs.

"I don't need your pity," Clint muttered, pushing himself up onto his elbows. The blanket was getting too hot for his liking so he turned it off and tossed it aside. He could feel sweat beginning to form under his arms and around his neck.

But then there was a little breeze from shifting his weight and Clint felt cold again. There was nothing worse than breaking into cold sweat when you're already shivering and sniffling. So he tugged the blanket back on again, wrapping himself up into a cocoon.

He hoped that in that cocoon he would undergo a drastic change and emerge as a healthy butterfly.

"I've had my share of sicknesses," Steve said. "I've also had my share of pity. But I guess you've already read about it, gone to the museum in DC, or watched the documentary."

"Two out of three. I haven't seen the film, though Coulson said it was mostly accurate."

It wasn't until after the sun set did Steve set off. They'd talked for a little longer until Clint fell asleep while watching TV. Although Clint was already fast asleep, Steve lay the blanket which had fallen off back onto his friend.

In truth, Clint was still half-awake, and as he felt the blanket cover him, he felt warm, and not just from the extra layer. As he felt Steve lay a hand on his shoulder before departing, Clint grinned to himself as the low hum of the heater lulled him to sleep.


End file.
